


Fen

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, Gen, Implied suicidal tendencies/thoughts, Introspection, M/M, Surprise Kissing, lack of trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a week or so after the events of Ma Halam, and Theron and Zevran take a few halting steps forwards in their relationship, whatever it is right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fen

Zevran let out a hiss through his teeth as he crouched to hammer the pegs of his tent into the ground, pain shooting through his side. They’d been attacked by a wolf pack the previous day, and in the mild chaos he’d gotten injured without the others realising. Not that it mattered right now.

It had been a week, more or less, since he’d attempted to kill Theron in his sleep, and naturally the ranger had been subtly avoiding him as much as possible. The dog had barely left his side, and kept glaring at the former Crow whenever he got too close. Zevran had ensured to pitch his tent as far from Theron’s as he could.

Zevran gritted his teeth, and kept hammering the peg in. He had endured far worse than a few scratches, and was ensuring the cuts were kept clean and bandaged. He knew how to take care of himself, and he had no intention of going to Morrigan - or worse, Theron - for a health poultice even though he had run out of the few he had already been carrying. Both were equally unapproachable.

Besides, what would happen if he did? He was wounded, and given how he was standing on very fragile ground already with the group’s rightful mistrust of him, what would stop them from taking the opportunity to simply leave him in the next village they came across? Or even out here on the open, darkspawn-riddled road?

No, he couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t admit to any of them that he was vulnerable, even that Orlesian bard who seemed to like him more than the others. Zevran winced as he straightened up, clenching his hands into fists at the sharp twinges of pain. He could feel the bandage sticking to the inside of his armour, knew that he would need to clean the wound soon. Perhaps he could wait for the night, when the rest of the group would be asleep.

Taking a deep breath hurt, sent ripples of pain through him, but Zevran did it anyway as he kept setting his tent up, keeping his head down and pretending to be completely focused on that alone whenever someone came near.

Night fell what felt like a whole Age later, but Zevran lay awake in his tent waiting impatiently for the sounds outside to cease. He’d been quieter than normal during the evening meal, and he’d been fully aware of the suspicious looks that Morrigan had given him while the rest of the group discussed where to go next.

He looked down at his injury in the dim light. Three relatively short cuts that raked down over his ribs, a thin layer of dry blood showing the patch that was covered by the bandages. They’d only just stopped bleeding, and his bandage was unsalvageable. He’d have to toss it into the fire, perhaps, and steal another one, or tear up one of his old undershirts. His armour had taken the brunt of the attack, and he’d spent the previous night patching up the cut leather, swearing and cursing all of Fereldan’s wolf population bitterly.

The Antivan looked towards the closed flap of his tent, listening intently. All he could hear was the soft crackle of the fire. Perhaps it would be safe now? Zevran pushed himself up into a sitting position, eyes watering as the pain flashed and burned. He tugged an undershirt on hastily, one just long enough to cover his smallclothes.

“ _Braska_.” He swore when he realised there were red patches already spreading on the light cotton of his shirt. Hopefully no-one else was out there, or that whoever was on watch had slipped away to answer a call of nature or gone back to their tent - _anything_ , really.

Zevran got up, hesitating before he brought the wad of bandages along with him, clenched into a tight ball in one fist, and he left his tent. The firelight was bright, and it took him a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the sudden contrast and pick out the other tents. All were quiet, the flaps closed. Zevran quickly threw the bandages into the fire. They were as incriminating as any letter. He turned, about to slip away from camp in search of the river Sten had brought water from, but froze when someone on the other side of the campfire moved.

“You’re awake too?” The ranger asked guardedly, hands pausing. His bow was in his lap, and a small carving knife was in his hand. The firelight played over his features, exaggerated his wary expression. The Antivan felt his heart sink to somewhere below his feet. Theron’s head lowered ever so slightly, and his grey gaze immediately found the small dark red patches that stained Zevran’s undershirt.

“Don’t go running anywhere. Sit.” Theron said, sounding resigned. He set his bow and knife down, brushed splinters of wood off his lap and got to his feet, ducking into his tent. Zevran sat on the log the ranger had just vacated. The Dalish elf returned, a small container in his hand, and sat down beside the blond. He was silent, and tugged the side of the other elf’s shirt up to examine the source of the bleeding.

“If you wish, I could take this off.” Zevran suggested with a weak smirk, trying to pass off his discomfort, nerves, pain, _everything_ with his usual guile.

“Please.” Theron replied, as unresponsive to the flirt as a stone. The Antivan nodded, and pulled his shirt off with a hiss. When he’d thought about taking his shirt off for the other elf, he’d never imagined blood and wounds would be part of it. Definitely not the cause, at least.

The ranger turned back to the fire, reaching over to snag a pot of water that had been set aside for the morning’s tea. He pulled it close, between them, and grabbed Zevran’s discarded shirt. Dunking it into the water, he lost no time in cleaning the blood away with it. Zevran bit his lip, doing his best not to flinch at the lukewarm water against his skin, or the realisation that he was sitting next to the man he’d tried to kill (twice) in just his smallclothes, without even a dagger.

“I take it this is from the wolf attack?” Theron asked, watching the water trickle down Zevran’s side and examining the three parallel cuts.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want to tell any of us.”

“You assume a lot, Warden.” Zevran noted, watching as he set the sodden undershirt down beside the pot and reached for the container. From the bitter smell, it was some form of poultice, but it looked different to the ones they bought from the markets. Was it Dalish?

“Is it the truth?” Theron answered, scooping some of the thick mixture out with two of his fingers and reaching out to apply it to the wounds. “Oh, by the way, this will sting.” He added quickly, and closed the distance before Zevran could react. The Antivan stiffened, but did his best not to yelp. It wasn’t a dull burning pain, but it stung as sharply as a whip or a cold wind. As the look in Theron’s eyes when Zevran had left his tent on _that_ night. Zevran blinked rapidly as his eyes watered.

“Yes.” He grunted, gritting his teeth as Theron moved his fingers around, ensuring all of the cuts were covered with the poultice and stinging fiercely.

“You could have gotten an infection, or may still. If those wolves had been Blight-touched, an infection would have been the least of your worries.” Theron said. He still had a detached tone to his voice, as if he was suppressing anger.

Wait, was he angry that Zevran hadn’t told him he was hurt?

“Perhaps that would be a blessing.” The Antivan sighed, looking down at the cool poultice curiously, at the bitter smell that made him want to wrinkle his nose.

Theron’s fingers paused, and those grey eyes finally looked up at the blond’s face.

“What do you mean?” The ranger asked, frowning. It creased his forehead tattoos, disrupted the rather elegant flow to them.

“Let me ask you something, Warden. What kind of person who calls themselves a professional killer sets up an ambush with only one mage and a bunch of pathetically weak archers and other hireling mercenaries any decent city guard would scrape from the bottom of their boots?” Zevran asked tersely, the pain making him snap.

Theron was silent, his expression smoothing out again as he leaned down to absently wash the poultice from his fingers. Zevran’s side stung and burned, throbbed now in time to his pulse.

“I see.” He eventually replied, voice soft. He looked at the Antivan again. “Shall I assume that you perhaps wanted to die of infection now?” He asked, standing up abruptly.

Zevran held his breath as he automatically got to his feet as well. They were the same height, more or less. Theron might have been a little taller, but that was because he still had his boots on.

“Perhaps.” The Antivan echoed, watching as Theron went back to his tent, taking the jar with him. When he returned a few seconds later, it was with bandages.

“You are like a wolf yourself.” Theron commented as he began to wind the bandages around Zevran’s midsection. “Take a deep breath in and hold it, or I could tie these too tight.” He advised quickly, pausing until the Antivan did as he instructed. “You value your independence. You don’t want to show weakness to the rest of the pack, out of fear they will drive you out so you will no longer be a burden. Am I correct?”

Zevran narrowed his eyes, but he was still holding his breath, and Theron was standing close to him so he could pass the bandages around the blond’s body from one hand to the other. He supposed that analogy was correct, in a way. If he was a wolf, was he a lone interloper that the pack would turn on and drive out in due course, or would he be loyal to them, out of a selfish interest in self-preservation if not anything genuine? _Could_ he be truly loyal? Could he even take his own oath seriously now when it had been a casual lie?

The two elves stared at each other for a tense moment as Theron finished tying the bandage; his hands lingered, and Zevran exhaled slowly. Grey and brown and black against so much gold.

Zevran wasn’t too aware of when exactly they kissed, but he suddenly felt the ranger’s lips pressed tightly against his own, at a slight angle, rough and demanding. They parted an instant later, and Theron looked down at the fire, stepping back out of the former Crow’s personal space.

“You should get some sleep, Zevran.” He suggested awkwardly. His expression was still grim and guarded, but there was something distant in his eyes.

“If you say so, Warden.” Zevran shrugged carefully, realising that he probably wouldn’t get the undershirt back tonight, and he walked back round the fire to his tent. He was about to duck back into the darkness when the ranger spoke again.

“Call me Theron.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write another piece that bridged a little more of the gap between Theron and Zevran, but I wasn’t entirely sure how to do it until I saw a prompt (which, it turns out, is another work on here): http://archiveofourown.org/works/973161/chapters/1913180 So, inspiration was drawn from the prompt, and indirectly the fic.  
> Translations:  
> Fen = Wolf
> 
> Guess who just unexpectedly recruited Sera in DA:I?


End file.
